Member Poem

If I had been more,

held your hand
when it mattered

and even
when it didn’t,

what started as a scribble
in my yearbook
may not have ended
with this apology.

Ink lasts longer
than nascent buds,
wilted before their bloom.
Notes we wrote
lend breath
to ghosts,

long after
pens fall still.

In this cold place
I see your face
as it was behind the gym;
where your lips
once tasted

of blackberries
and sunshine.

Ryan Stone

First published by Silver Birch Press